


Wouldn't It Be Nice

by cissues



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Eddie Kaspbrak smokes weed, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, it gets a little angsty in there but it gets better pretty quickly I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-10 04:09:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21472084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cissues/pseuds/cissues
Summary: “Okay, first off, if you’re gonna become a bonafide stoner, youneedto stop calling itcannabis. You sound like a fucking narc. It’sweed. Orkush, or sometimesthat sticky icky. Second, I’ve been rolling fat doobies since I was in fucking high school, dude.”“I literally did not understand a single goddamn word you said,”---Eddie and Richie smoke weed and talk about things.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 17
Kudos: 166





	Wouldn't It Be Nice

**Author's Note:**

> WHOOP here's some fucking SMOKING KINK and ANGST FEST BULLSHIT
> 
> There's obviously drug use (they smoke weed :\ ) but also there's like anxiety attack shit and Eddie talks about mental health stuff and they use the word "cr*zy" a few times in reference to themselves.
> 
> I really meant for this to be like a fluff fest but I cannot stop Hurting myself but it's really ok they work it out nbd
> 
> also warning for overuse of filler words in dialogue.
> 
> ALSO sorry for using the "it's rotten work" quote i just literally cannot stop thinking abt it.
> 
> (title stolen from the ever relevant "Wouldn't It Be Nice" by the Beach Boys)
> 
> (come bug me on twitter @peachieweech and talk to me abt reddie pls)

The bag falls onto the coffee table with a solid  _ thud _ .

Richie startles, eyes wide behind his crooked glasses, phone falling out of his hand where it was already laying loosely. He’d fallen asleep on the couch again, notebook open on some half-baked, lazily scrawled jokes. This had become a regular occurrence in his and Eddie’s shared apartment ever since his old manager had let him go for missing several big dates  _ in Reno _ . It was a regular conversation - well, not  _ conversation _ per se. It was mostly just Richie lamenting loudly about his ruined career and complaining about writing his own material. ‘ _ It’s  _ hard _ , being funny is  _ hard _ , Eds. You fucking try it _ .’ Eddie, fed up and annoyed, had then wrote him one of his funniest new jokes and Richie refused talk to him for three hours afterwards.

“G’mornin’,” Richie slurs, blinking sleepily up at Eddie.

“It’s three in the afternoon.” Eddie says, clipped, frowning at the white paper bag, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Whassat?” Richie adjusts his glasses and sits up, stretching his long limbs and groaning at the pops and cracks his joints make. For a split moment Eddie’s eyes flicker to Richie’s exposed stomach as his shirt rides up and Eddie feels his cheeks flush. This keeps happening and Eddie’s, honestly,  _ over _ this schoolboy crush shit that won’t let up. He keeps getting distracted when Richie’s in the kitchen, humming some song while he does dishes, or when he sprawls his ridiculous body over any and every surface. It doesn’t help that Richie keeps  _ grinning _ at Eddie like he hung the moon and it’s so overwhelming that Eddie usually snips at him to keep his fucking eyes to himself and Richie will just laugh and flip Eddie off or shove him or ruffle his hair or, sometimes, he’ll just smile more and his eyes will soften and it’s just  _ too much, _ it’s always  _ so much _ .

“Um, it’s… it’s medical cannabis.” Eddie says finally, face screwing up as if he doesn’t fully believe himself.

Richie’s mouth falls open into a stunned grin and he lets out a bark of surprised laughter.

“I’m sorry,  _ what the fuck did you just say _ ?” He reaches out and grabs the bag, peering inside. Eddie’s unwinds his arms and his hands find each other, wringing his fingers nervously.

“My,  _ uh _ , my doctor told me it might help. With the anxiety or whatever. It happened so fucking  _ fast _ , Rich.” He places himself carefully in the armchair and watches as Richie pulls out the small plastic baggie with five beautifully rolled joints. There’s a sticker on the bag with a little cartoon pot leaf wearing a stethoscope and giving Richie a thumbs up. He snorts out another laugh and opens the bag to sniff at it.

“Damn, this is that  _ good _ good,” Richie says and his voice is still a little sleepy but the way he says it makes Eddie smile, chuckling brightly despite himself. “What the fuck do  _ you _ know about cannabis, Rich?” He asks, reaching out to grab the bag from Richie’s hands.

“Okay, first off, if you’re gonna become a bonafide stoner, you _need_ to stop calling it _cannabis_. You sound like a fucking narc. It’s _weed_. Or _kush_, or sometimes _that_ _sticky icky_. Second, I’ve been rolling fat doobies since I was in fucking high school, dude.”

“I literally did not understand a single goddamn word you said,” Eddie inspects the pretty joints, perfectly conical. The paper is printed with little green caduceus symbols. He looks up when the paper bag crinkles again as Richie pulls out the small blue glass pipe and the second baggie containing a little glistening green bud shot with purple. Richie blinks at it, turning it around in his fingers looking a little awed.

“Shit, this is  _ pretty _ .”

Eddie sighs shortly, licking his lips and setting the joints back on the table.  _ You’re pretty _ , he tries not to think but it bubbles up in his head anyway. He looks at the way the little smile plays at the corner of Richie’s lips and jumps slightly when he’s faced with Richie’s excited gaze.

“We’re gonna smoke this, right?” He asks, breaking into a blinding smile. Eddie’s heart stutters in his chest. “Yeah, once you show me your medical cannabis card and a prescription from your doctor,” he says with a roll of his eyes, snatching the pipe and baggie from Richie’s hands.

Richie snorts again, “you  _ are _ a narc, I fucking knew it.”

“Go find a lighter, asshole.”

Richie jumps up immediately, scrambling into the foyer where his coat hangs. He returns triumphantly clutching his Bic lighter. Eddie  _ hates _ his Bic lighter. It has a denim pattern on it which means Richie insists on calling it his “jenim jighter” and corrects anyone who refuses to call it that, namely Eddie.

“I think you mean  _ jighter _ ,” Richie says as he collapses back into the couch and Eddie groans loudly, like he always does.

“I changed my mind, I don’t want to smoke weed with you,” Eddie says even as he pulls out a joint.

“Oh, cool, you called it weed! You’re learning, Eds, I’m proud of you.”

Eddie frowns at him, eyebrows pinched, but his heart flutters with an uncomfortable mixture of daddy issues and undying fondness at the words ‘ _ I’m proud of you _ ’. God, he’s fucked up. No wonder his doctor had put a hand on his shoulder and looked at him with a very serious expression when he said, “ _ I think you should try medical cannabis, Edward. _ ”

“You should start,” he says, handing the joint to Richie, “I haven’t smoked since like, eleventh grade and that was just once and it was only because Bev peer pressured me.”

“Happens to the best of us, man.” Richie toasts him with the joint before placing it between his lips and flicking the  _ jighter _ .

Eddie is momentarily captivated by the phallic imagery of Richie’s mouth around the end of the joint, the way his lips pinch it there and he cups his hand around the end, even though there’s no wind to block from the flame. Eddie’s been in this same situation before when Richie smokes cigarettes and it’s always  _ done _ something for him. He’s sure it’s the unbelievable levels of repression that he’s been carefully undoing for the last six months since regaining his memories and realizing all sorts of terrifying things about himself. But, it could just be Richie, and everything that Richie is, and the overwhelming eroticism that is  _ Richie _ doing literally  _ anything _ .

Eddie swallows audibly as Richie breathes out a plume of smoke, jaw relaxed and eyelids hooded. He hums the last dredges of smoke out of his nose and shifts his gaze to Eddie and Eddie feels all of his muscles tensing. It’s with a sudden, crashing sense that he realizes this was an absolutely  _ horrible _ idea.

His fingers shake when he takes the joint.

“It’s easy, man. Just breath in, hold it, then let it out,” Richie says, sounding too much like Eddie’s therapist and he frowns before maneuvering the thing between his index and middle finger - like a cigarette - bringing it to his mouth and inhaling.

The sense memory that comes with it is surprisingly comforting. He and Bev, months before she leaves to live with her aunt, sitting on the park swings on a cold winter day when no one would walk by, passing a haphazardly rolled joint between them. They giggle and he remembers not being exactly  _ high _ , per se, just warm and happy to be with her, missing her before she even left.

The feeling of it makes him smile involuntarily as he holds the smoke. He feels the cough rising in his chest and he suppresses it for as long as he can before it bursts out of him, causing him to hack until his eyes water. Richie’s laughing at him as he takes the joint from Eddie’s fingers, using his other hand to pat Eddie’s knee.

“Easy, Eds,” he says teasingly.

Already Eddie’s head is getting swimmy. He gets up and retrieves two glasses of water from the kitchen, swallowing his own down quickly before filling it again, and bringing it back. He opts to perch himself next to Richie on the couch this time, tucking his legs up underneath him. Richie smiles at him in this warm, sticky way that pushes into Eddie and when he takes his next hit, it goes down smoother. He hands the joint back and he notices that Richie’s expression has fallen slightly. He has this look of wonder that Eddie doesn’t know what to do with so he just bows his head slightly, looking at the floor. He’s smiling despite himself and he can’t seem to wipe it away.

“Do you feel cool yet?” Richie’s voice comes out a little slow and syrupy and Eddie looks up at him, eyebrows raised and lips parted and already his mouth feels a little dry. It didn’t feel like this in highschool, but the frenzied research he’d done sitting in the parking lot of his doctor’s office told him that many people don’t feel much of anything the first time they smoke, and that the second time is usually a lot more like one would expect. His head feels both light and heavy at the same time and he finds it hard to string a sentence together without a significant amount of concentration.

“No,” he says indignantly, “I feel like a fucking forty year old man smoking pot a doctor prescribed because he’s… because I’m too fucking… fucking  _ neurotic _ to act like a normal- normal fucking person.” He sounds upset, when he hears his own voice, but he doesn’t  _ feel _ upset. Not exactly. He feels… frustrated. He’d tried a whole slew of anti-anxiety medication before this. He still takes some of them, mostly for the panic attacks. He still has a fucking fake inhaler hidden in his underwear drawer like it’s contraband. When his doctor had handed him the prescription note for fucking  _ pot _ he realized that they were running out of options. If this didn’t help, then he was basically fucked, doomed to live in an anxiety spiral for the rest of his godforsaken days.

“You  _ are _ a forty year old man smoking  _ weed _ a doctor prescribed, but hey, so is like…  _ most _ of California, Eds. That doesn’t mean you’re like,  _ crazy _ or whatever. I mean, you are, but that’s not… it’s a part of you and I think that’s… I think that’s cool.” Richie looks like he wasn’t satisfied with what he’d just said, like he’d chosen the wrong words in the wrong order and Eddie rolls his eyes, taking another hit of the joint even though he feels like he should probably stop.

“ _ Thanks, Rich _ . Feels real fucking  _ cool _ to need anxiety meds just so that I can walk into the goddamn pharmacy. Feels super, like,  _ quirky _ and  _ fun _ for me.” He twists his mouth and, again, his voice sounds so much different than he feels. He doesn’t know why he sounds so biting and angry when he really doesn’t feel like much at all.

“Sorry,” Richie mumbles, and he looks away for a long moment, longer than is typical for a pause in conversation, but Eddie waits and he tries to relax his face muscle by muscle. He realizes that his body is sort of tremoring and he shivers involuntarily.

“Sorry, I just… I really hate it when you talk about yourself like that.” Richie says finally, turning to face Eddie and his expression is sort of sad and it makes Eddie’s stomach churn. He does that, sometimes. Says something that makes Richie upset, or joke about something a little too close to home, a little too on the nose, and it makes Richie’s face pinch and twist and Eddie  _ hates _ it.

Eddie thinks about how to reply for a very long time. Everything feels like it’s being dragged through honey and his thoughts take a long time to come into focus.

“I know, I’m sorry, Rich.” He says, pursing his lips and running a hand through his hair. “I’m just… trying to be okay. It’s… it’s really fucking hard, but I’m trying, man.”

Richie laughs, startling Eddie. He has his eyes turned towards the ceiling and his mouth hanging open slightly in an empty smile.

“You’re telling me.” He says and his voice sounds dark. He doesn’t look back at Eddie and Eddie misses the bright smiles, the twinkling eyes, the joy and excitement and the unrelenting attention on  _ Eddie Eddie Eddie _ .

“What are you…” Eddie pauses to push the words off of his tongue, “what are you fighting? What makes it so hard?”

It works to bring Richie’s attention back to him. His lips are still parted and his eyes are slightly unfocused. Eddie realizes that the joint has gone out where Richie is holding it between his fingertips but he doesn’t say anything. Richie snorts a sarcastic laugh after a second, pressing his thumb into the corner of his eye, looking over at the wall again.

“Uh, nothing I can talk to you about, man,” He says, shaking his head a little as he gestures vaguely with the joint. “Nothing you can really do about it, anyway. Gotta fight my own demons, y’know?”

Eddie purses his lips, eyes narrowing. “That’s such bullshit, Rich.” He says and it comes out in a half snarl. Richie’s hand drops to his lap and he looks a little stunned. “You’re such a fucking martyr sometimes, you know that? You were like that in the fucking hospital after my surgery, you were like that when I moved in, you were like that after my fucking divorce finalized. It’s not all about you, Rich! It’s not all about how  _ bad _ you feel about me almost fucking  _ dying.  _ It’s not fair for you to keep like…  _ mourning _ me when I’m right fucking  _ here _ , Rich! I’m  _ right here _ !”

It’s with suddenly clarity that Eddie realizes that the warm syrupy feeling has quickly transformed into a somewhat minor anxiety attack. His whole body is shaking and his eyes are wide and his hands are clenched into fists where they rest on his knees. He can feel his teeth click and it makes him all too aware of them, his mouth feels full and crowded.

Richie is still staring at him, shoulders pulled towards his ears. He looks like he’d been slapped. Then he looks away, eyebrows still high on his forehead but whole body sort of deflating.

“Uh,” he says, squinting at the floor and scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, though it comes out in a shiver.

“No, not ‘ _ yeah _ ’, Eddie. You have literally no idea what you’re talking about.”

Eddie frowns. He shivers.

“I’m not… I’m not fucking  _ mourning _ you, God! You’re such a fucking drama queen sometimes. I’m trying to-- it’s like I’m holding two--  _ fuck _ .” Richie hisses through his teeth, pushing his fingers under his glasses and into his eyes. “We should  _ not _ have smoked together, this was a fucking horrible idea.”

“No shit, Rich,” Eddie says through his teeth.

Richie takes a deep breath and sits up, hands still in his hair and eyes wide as if he’s surprised at himself. He drops his hands and clears his throat, turning fully towards Eddie and crossing his legs, pretzel-style.

“I’m about to tell you something,” he says and his voice is hushed and his expression so serious and he looks like a kid, “and I  _ need _ you to promise me that you won’t freak out. It would-  _ god _ it would kill me. Just… no matter what, I need you to, like, keep calm and carry on.”

Eddie’s eyes flutter shut at that last part and he inhales sharply through his nose.

“Sure, Rich.”

“ _ Promise me _ .”

“I  _ promise _ not to freak out,  _ fuck _ .”

“Okay.”

Richie licks his lips and swallows, looking up at the ceiling again as if in prayer.

“I’m probably only saying this ‘cuz I’m high and I have no filter right now and I want you to know that. That this is like, my _ secret. _ And that you--  _ god _ okay, uh,”

Richie takes a deep breath before settling Eddie with the too-serious stare and Eddie presses his lips together with the sudden urge to laugh. He breathes through his nose carefully, fighting down a smile. He nods, encouraging.

“You make me feel like this… all the  _ fucking _ time.”

The smile dies on Eddie’s lips. His eyebrows pinch and his body begins to tremor again. He shivers.

“What?” He asks, quiet and confused.

Richie closes his eyes and shakes his head.

“ _ This _ . Fucking…  _ high _ and-- and  _ crazy _ . Seeing you here… in my  _ house _ , just like… being here and living and existing, it makes me feel like I’m fucking  _ dreaming _ .”

“Rich, I’ve been living here for, like, five months--”

“I  _ know _ and I still can’t believe it! I like… I’ve  _ literally _ pinched myself so many times I think I bruised my fucking arm, Eds. Sometimes I think I could just go on like this forever, this, like… roommates thing and I could be happy just seeing you here every day but then… I don’t know, sometimes it hurts. And I would never kick you out or, I don’t know…  _ ask _ anything from you but it fucking… it  _ hurts _ . Not being able to tell you-- the fact that you don’t even  _ know _ how much it fucks me up seeing you in the kitchen, or just walking around in your fucking  _ pajamas _ in my fucking  _ house _ , Eds. It’s… it sucks and it hurts but it’s also, like, super unfair. I can’t… I can’t  _ ask _ for that.”

Eddie is watching him carefully, mind still a little hazy and working too slow for the winding and confusing rambling. He knows what it  _ sounds _ like. He knows what he wants it to be, but he’s so afraid to say it, so afraid to speak it into existence, so instead he says,

“You can’t ask for what, Rich?” Quiet and so, so careful.

Richie looks at him, tired and eyes glassy and nose turning red. He sniffs.

“I can’t ask you to let me love you. Not like I… not like I want to.”

Eddie pauses and lets the silence linger for probably too long. His expression stays neutral when he finally says, “You can ask.”

Richie’s jaw clenches and his nostrils flare as he breathes in sharp and sudden. Eddie can see him grind his teeth, unsure. It takes a long beat before he turns his head away and swallows and says,

“Will you? Is that… is it cool if I--” he frowns and one side of his faces pinches up, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek. “Can I?”

Eddie fights down a smile when he says, “I don’t know, can you?”

A surprised and watery bark of a laugh pulls out of Richie and his head whips to look at Eddie.

“You fucking  _ bitch _ ,” he says through laughter, half heartedly punching Eddie in the shoulder. Eddie gasps dramatically, reaching over to push Richie down against the couch, pinching him everywhere he can reach. Richie swats at his hands until finally Eddie catches his fingers and brings them up to his mouth, pressing a kiss there. It’s the bravest thing he thinks he’s ever done.

Richie’s jaw goes slack again and it’s seconds until he rips his hand from Eddie’s only to reach up and pull his face down, down, down, until they’re suddenly breathing into each other’s mouths.

“ _ May _ I?” He asks,  _ breathes _ out and into Eddie.

“Only if you let me, too.”

Eddie thinks he can feel Richie’s heart thump against his chest and he takes that as a sign to lean down and press their lips together finally,  _ finally _ . They both taste like weed, Richie a little like sleep, and Eddie grins into the kiss and so does Richie. When teeth meets lip, it’s caught and bitten lightly, a tease that feels so natural that Eddie is sure he’s done it a thousand times before. His fingers thread into Richie’s hair, his elbows propping him up above. Richie groans and Eddie consumes it like he’s hungry for that sound, and he is. He’s ravenous. His body is still shivering but it feels more like waves of  _ finally’s _ that roll off of him and the hazy feeling in his head has sharpened to Richie’s mouth on his jaw, Richie’s hands on his hips, Richie’s thigh between his. His attention is laser focused to every inch of Richie underneath him, every movement he makes, every tremor that shakes his body against Eddie’s.

His skin feels like it’s on fire, and when they part, just a fraction of an inch, Eddie is panting. Richie’s eyes are dark and his face blotched red and it’s the prettiest thing Eddie has ever seen.

“Fuck, you’re pretty.”

Richie blinks up at him, surprised.

“I’m… you think I’m  _ pretty _ ?”

Eddie frowns, rolling his eyes and looking away.

“Yeah, dipshit. You’re fucking… you’re  _ pretty _ . Good  _ god _ .”

Richie laughs, knocking his forehead against Eddie’s.

“I think you’re pretty, too, Eddie Spaghetti.”

Eddie groans long and loud, sitting up finally, his knees still bracketing Richie’s hips and hands splayed on Richie’s chest and he does his level best not to think about how fucking erotic it feels.

“Fuck off, Richard.” He snarls and Richie’s eyes go wide, just a little.

“Holy shit, dude, I love you so fucking much.”

Eddie’s jaw clenches and he feels like he might cry, hearing the words spoken out loud and not just implied through several minutes worth of unraveled rambling. He swallows.

“It’s, uh… it’s rotten work, you know.”

“What?” Richie looks at him, dumbfounded.

“Like… like that quote. The fuckin’... that quote, you know?”

“Yeah, I know the  _ quote _ , Eds, I just don’t know why you’re quoting fucking  _ Orestes  _ at me.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, pressing his fist against Richie’s chest in a caricature of a punch.

“Just say the fuckin'-- just say it.” He says, grumpy.

Richie laughs at him, pinching his cheek.

“Not to me, Eddie Spaghetti. Not if it’s you.”

“Fuck you.”

“I love you.”

Eddie smiles, in spite of himself, leaning back down to press a tender kiss to the corner of Richie’s mouth.

“I love you, Rich.”

Richie grins, fingers pressing into Eddie’s hips where his hands still rest.

“It’s rotten--”

“ _ Oh my god _ , I take it back! I take it all back! Go on fucking ‘ _ not asking’ _ me or whatever, I’m done.”

Eddie moves as if he’s going to get up off the couch but, as he’d hoped, Richie wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist and pulls him back down, earning a squawk and another bout of laughter.

They lay together then, noses pressing against the other, and Eddie feels the  _ finally _ sink into his bones and settle.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment/kudo if you liked it!! Y'alls comments make me feel Powerful :)
> 
> Love u!!!! <3


End file.
